


Exhaustion

by draculard



Category: Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017)
Genre: Also Thranto if you squint, But it has that kind of vibe, Concerned Faro, Except it's not exactly hurt/comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not entirely canon-compliant but close to it, Sleep Deprivation, Stoic Thrawn, Thraro if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22838872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: Vanto's been gone for days now, and Grand Admiral Thrawn is ... fine.
Relationships: Karyn Faro/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo & Eli Vanto
Comments: 9
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

Commander Vanto disappeared in the middle of the night cycle, when neither Faro nor Thrawn were on the bridge. The missing shuttle was noticed the next day; a notice of desertion was filed at 1400. Faro brought the datawork to Thrawn’s office personally and he stared at the holoscreen without expression, reading the notice in full before he signed his authorization at the bottom.

His hand was steady; she watched him, searching for any hint of wrath or sadness in his eyes, but Thrawn was perfectly, professionally blank.

It was Batonn, Faro told herself. She’d seen Vanto’s disillusionment on the bridge — his concern over the transports, his whispered conversation with Yularen. Maybe his faith had wavered during the battle, but it must have broken completely when the city exploded and the shields were still up. She could understand that; 30,000 civilian deaths made one heavy burden to bear.

Still, he should’ve known better than to leave. He should have seen Thrawn’s face when he learned the news, like Faro had. He should have been there to see Governor Pryce when she came back aboard the ship, cautiously triumphant, unable to hide the smug, defensive glint in her eyes.

He should have _known_.

Surely, he wouldn’t have left if he’d known. 

* * *

It was a totally automatic reaction to a completely normal situation on the ISD _Chimaera_. Unidentified — but unarmed — ships, probably nothing more than a local shipping company, appeared without authorization in Imperial space. It was a routine issue, one Faro could deal with herself, but one which she was still required by regulation to report.

So she keyed her comlink to Thrawn’s private channel and said, “Sir, unidentified and unarmed vessels off starboard bow.”

She received no answer.

That wasn’t exactly cause for alarm. Over the years, Faro had worked under many, many officers, and for every single one of them, an unanswered comm might have been cause for concern. With Thrawn, it was … kind of par for the course. He seemed to have a finely-tuned sixth sense for which calls were true emergencies and which could be ignored — and when they _could_ be ignored, he could almost always be found in the aft bridge office surrounded by artistic holo displays. Silence on Thrawn’s end of the line was normal.

And so was her reflex:

“Vanto,” she said, voice crisp and commanding, “go find the Grand Admiral.”

It was only after a beat of awkward silence from the bridge that she looked up and remembered Vanto was gone. Awkwardly, she thumbed her comlink on again.

“Sir?” she said. “Faro to Thrawn?”

Nothing.

Great. Fantastic. She pointed to the communications officer, who nodded, already signaling the unidentified ships. The situation was sorted out in no time; the captains had local accents, thick but clear, and they were only too happy to clear out when told. In less than five minutes, they were back on their way out of Lothal’s orbit. 

“Commander Hammerly,” said Faro, a bitter taste in her mouth, “you have the bridge.”

She didn’t hear Hammerly’s murmur of assent; she was already striding off the bridge and into the clean, isolated passageways of the _Chimaera_. The path to Thrawn’s aft bridge office was short and almost entirely deserted — no stormtroopers roaming the halls, no radar technicians milling around, no officers skiving off duty. All Faro could hear was the click of her own heels against the floor.

Outside Thrawn’s office, she paused, taking a steadying breath.

She pressed the chime for access.

Nothing.

“ _Seriously_?” Faro growled, so low she could barely hear herself. Quickly, she snatched a code cylinder out of her breast pocket and — so much for common courtesy — buzzed herself in. The doors slid open, revealing the all-too-familiar blue glow of Thrawn’s holos.

Once her eyes adjusted, she could see Thrawn, too, standing at the center of it all. He was turned to face the east wall of the command room, his eyes fixed on a piece of art Faro didn’t recognize. She hesitated in the doorway, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

After a moment, she stepped into the room. Surely, if she moved, he’d notice her.

Then the doors slid closed behind her. Surely _that_ would get his attention.

Thrawn sighed almost inaudibly, still examining the art piece. He shifted position, bringing his hands out from where they were clasped behind his back to cross them over his chest. After another long moment, he sighed again and brought one hand up to cup his chin.

Still … examining … the art.

“Sir?” Faro said, frustration seeping into her voice. Vanto had _told_ her about this, but she never believed him. She’d taken it all for simple exaggeration. 

But no, Thrawn _really_ seemed like he didn’t hear her at all. Sighing, Faro moved between the holos in a vaguely circular direction, trying not to disrupt any of the works by passing through them. She was about three steps from Thrawn — and starting to think she’d have to physically shake him before he noticed her — when his eyes widened by a fraction and he looked her way so abruptly you’d think she grabbed a priceless vase and shattered it on the floor.

“Commodore Faro,” he said, belatedly checking his comlink. His voice betrayed no surprise. 

“Couldn’t raise you, sir,” said Faro with (what she hoped was) a professional nod, going into parade rest. 

“At ease,” said Thrawn absently. “Is there a problem on the bridge?”

“No, sir. It’s been dealt with. Two unarmed carriers wandering into our space on old credentials; they offered up a valid ID and went back the way they came.”

Already, Thrawn’s attention was almost completely focused back on the painting before him. “The ID?”

“Valur Diggs of Diggs Shipping Co., based out of Oon.”

She couldn’t tell if Thrawn was absorbing this information or just ignoring it. After a moment, he reached forward and pressed a button, shutting down holo displays all around the room. The lights dialed up automatically, allowing Faro her first good look at Thrawn’s face.

And all she could think was, _Oh_. 

With the holos gone, Thrawn moved away from the center of the room to the curved desk where his datapad waited, lying dormant. Every movement was stiff and slow; he walked like an injured man who still needed a few dozen long baths in the bacta tank. His face was blank; the only sign of weariness Faro could spot was in his eyes.

She’d never seen them so dim. 

“Slave traders?” Thrawn said suddenly, and it took Faro a moment to backtrack and understand.

“No, sir,” she said. “Not enough life forms on the scanners; they looked to be carrying mostly textiles. Desert silk is my guess; extremely common on Oon, but rare and subsequently in high demand elsewhere in this sector.”

“I see.” Thrawn folded his hands in front of his face and for a moment — just a moment — leaned his forehead against them to rest. 

“Headache, sir?” Faro asked.

Briefly, Thrawn looked up at her, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly to the side. Questioning. 

“You, ah …” Faro gestured to her own head and lapsed into silence. There was no way she could explain to Thrawn why she asked if he had a headache. She remembered a luncheon she shared with Vanto — it feels like eons ago now — when she’d first learned how long Vanto and Thrawn had been stationed together, that they’d even been roommates at the Academy.

 _Was he a good roommate?_ she’d asked, half-joking. 

_I mean, he was very clean,_ Vanto said. _Let’s be honest, he’s good at pretty much everything he does. Decent roommate, good student, great sparring partner—_

 _You’ve sparred with him?_ In her time with the Empire, Faro had met exceedingly few officers who could actually fight. _What’s that like? Is he any good?_

 _Oh, he’s_ disgustingly _good,_ Vanto said. _And it’s terrible, by the way. His hands are freezing, so every time he lands a blow, you’re not just hurt — you’re also cold as hell._

It had proven impossible for Faro to forget that innocuous conversation. She’d never touched Thrawn, even by accident, and she couldn’t help but wonder how cold his hands really were. And was it a Chiss thing — were his hands really _notably_ cold, or were they just a little below-average for human body temperature? If Vanto remembered them being cold even in the middle of a sparring session, Thrawn must be operating at a remarkably low body temperature at all times; she’d wondered more than once what kind of advantage this might give him in battle, when other men were overheating from a drawn-out fight.

And of course, when she saw him resting his forehead against those hands, her first thought was that if _she_ had a headache, she’d want something cold against her skin, too. 

She could _not_ tell Thrawn she thought about his hands this much. 

“Just worried for you, sir,” she said, which wasn’t much better. “Usually, when you don’t answer your comlink, we… we send Vanto. I wasn’t sure what I’d be walking into here.”

“I see.” 

Thrawn held her gaze for a moment; Faro could read the weariness in his posture and the tight lines of his face. She’d never seen it before, but she recognized it now. 

“What … _am_ I walking into here, sir?” she asked carefully.

Thrawn’s eyes slid closed. She could see the thin smudge of red beneath his eyes, though it looked closer to purple now — and she couldn’t tell whether or not that was a trick of the light. 

“I appreciate your concern, Commodore,” Thrawn said. “What you have walked into is a time of meditation. I take it daily, when my schedule permits.”

His tone was completely without weight; still, Faro felt like she could hear a challenge there. Even louder, she could hear an unspoken order.

“Understood, sir,” she said, and forced herself not to say anything else. 

Time to leave.


	2. Chapter 2

When Grand Admiral Thrawn left for Batuu, he was dressed in simple civilian clothes: loose-fitting, practical, and of a style considered eminently unfashionable on Coruscant. His high Imperial boots had been traded for a pair of shoes Faro recognized from the catalog of templates in the Chimaera’s databank: ankle-height and made of flexible leather, with a grip-fast tread designed to hold fast on any terrain.

He’d made subtle alterations to the outfit, of course. The boots had been extensively scuffed and already had dirt ground into the heels; he’d even taken the time to erode the sole, giving each shoe a well-worn look to it. Similarly, there was a mended tear on his right sleeve, and while the clothes were clean and stainless, he somehow managed to lighten the knees of his trousers, making them look worn.

He went off to Batuu looking like an average working-class traveler.

He came back halfway-encased in stone. 

“Sir,” Faro breathed, somewhat flabbergasted when Thrawn stepped off his shuttle. The stone shell — what, had someone dipped him in synstone down there? — climbed up his arms and legs like a sturdy vine, completely encircling his torso and even clinging to his neck. There were chunks of it in his hair, a smear of stone dried across his cheek. At first, Faro thought that whatever caused this miraculously managed to miss his joints, leaving him able to walk; then, belatedly, she realized he must have found a way to crack the stone. A chalky residue still clung to the cloth over his knees and elbows where the rest of it had been removed. 

“Commodore,” said Thrawn, nodding at her casually. His posture was a little strained. Faro glanced behind him, waiting for Darth Vader to emerge from the same shuttle. “He has left already,” Thrawn said, following her gaze.

Was it just her, or did his voice sound strained, too?

“Is Lord Vader … also…?” Faro asked, hesitating.

Thrawn quirked his eyebrows and, with his movements obviously hindered, raised his arms ever so slightly in a shrug. Faro interpreted this properly not as an “I don’t know” but as an “I don’t think it wise to say.”

Which meant yes, Lord Vader was also covered in stone. 

“I believe—” said Thrawn, and yes, his voice was _definitely_ strained, “—I may need to requisition a chisel and hammer, Commodore.”

“A—” Faro cut herself off, eyeing the thick stone glued to Thrawn’s civilian clothes. “You don’t think you can just … take off the clothes?”

“Not as such, no,” Thrawn said. Moving slowly and with great effort, he grasped the only visible portion of the hem of his shirt and attempted to lift it. It rose up approximately one inch, staying stiff the whole time, so that it looked like Thrawn was lifting part of a small wall rather than a piece of cloth. Except for the small piece he grasped in both hands, the entire shirt was welded solidly to his trousers; it was impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.

“To your quarters, then?” Faro asked. 

Thrawn looked down at his boots, which resembled solid building blocks more than anything else, and hesitated. Without waiting for an answer, Faro raised her comlink to her lips and thumbed it on.

“Ensign Warker,” she said, “I need you to requisition a motorized chisel post-haste and bring it to Docking Bay Four. Comm me when you arrive.”

She switched the comlink off and turned back to Thrawn, raising her eyebrows. He missed the look, eyes downcast as he examined his hands, carefully peeling away the specks of stone glued to his skin. She could see him slowly and almost imperceptibly sagging beneath the weight of it on his shoulders and back.

“Sir?” Faro said, indicating a low metal bench built into the nearby wall.

“Ah,” said Thrawn. He inclined his head and took a step toward the bench, staggering ever so slightly. By the time he took his second step, Faro was already at his side, supporting him with one hand on his elbow. He murmured his thanks, but Faro was almost too alarmed to hear it — the weight of the stone just on Thrawn’s forearm was _incredible_. 

She could understand Darth Vader walking back like this unaided — he was almost entirely cybernetic, after all. But for Thrawn to accomplish the same?

No wonder he looked so exhausted. 

He sank down on the bench with most of his usual grace intact, despite the burden currently etched into every stitch of his clothes. “I suspect it will be an hour or more before Ensign Warker procures that chisel,” he said, voice heavy but modulated. He was taking short, shallow breaths to compensate for the stone on his chest, stopping just short of hyperventilation. “You may return to the bridge, Commodore.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Faro said. She took a seat next to Thrawn and tried not to imagine what a forlorn figure he would cut sitting here alone and encased in stone for an hour. “Commander Hammerly is in charge and I’m sure Lord Vader will be breathing down the back of her neck any time now — er, taking command, that is. I can definitely afford to keep you company, sir.”

Thrawn didn’t look like he particularly wanted to protest, but just in case, Faro lifted her datapad so he could see it.

“Besides, sir,” she said, “I can do any work I need to from here.”

“Ah,” said Thrawn. He nodded once, slowly, and Faro had the distinct displeasure of watching a thin patch of stone crease over the back of his neck. Without thinking, she reached up and did her best to peel that layer of it away; Thrawn kept perfectly still, his head bent and his hair dangling over his eyes, until she was done. 

“Thank you,” he said. Retroactively uneasy about her actions, Faro only nodded. She busied herself with her datapad for a moment, checking her inboxes (both Imperial and personal) before pulling up her daily checklist; periodically, she sneaked a glance at Thrawn, expecting him to be reading over her shoulder, and found him instead staring at the shuttle. His eyes were distant, hooded — the same expression he wore when meditating over alien art.

The third time she looked at him, his eyes were closed. It was impossible to tell whether he was sleeping; his posture was still straight, his chin up, his face not particularly relaxed. He _couldn’t_ be asleep, Faro decided — not with so much stone pressing down on his chest. 

Her gaze flickered down at that thought, searching anxiously for any sign of movement beneath the stone. _Could_ he be asleep? Could he be unconscious? Was he even breathing?

“Sir?” Faro said. She nudged him with her elbow, realizing only after the fact that he might not be able to feel it through all that stone.

“Mm,” said Thrawn, not opening his eyes.

“Nothing, sir. Never mind.”

This was meant to put his mind at ease; it seemed to do the opposite. Faro stared down at her datapad, trying not to grimace, as Thrawn turned his head by increments to stare at her. She could see the red glow of his eyes reflected off her datapad screen.

“You are concerned,” Thrawn said, seeming to read her mind. Like he _always_ did. “I assure you, I am fit for duty.”

“Beneath the stone, you mean,” Faro said. 

“It’s suboptimal,” Thrawn acknowledged. He flexed his arms as best he could, watching the craggy surface of stone carpeting his sleeves. “I _have_ endured worse, however — both on the battlefield and off.”

“You’ll have to tell me one of those stories sometime,” Faro said. She waited a beat, but either Thrawn hadn’t noticed the invitation (possible) or he’d chosen to ignore it (even more possible). 

“You’ve been in battle yourself,” Thrawn said instead, his voice mild. 

“The Clone War,” said Faro with a nod. 

“Ah,” said Thrawn. His next words were quiet, almost impossible to hear. “I took twelve blaster shots to the chest in the Clone War.”

Faro’s head whipped around, her eyes wide. “You—?”

“ _Ensign Warker,_ ” came a voice from her comm. 

Blast. The worst possible timing!

“Opening the door now, Ensign,” Faro said into her comm, suppressing the surge of irritation she felt. She was already on her feet, leaving Thrawn alone on the bench as she keyed open the door to Docking Bay 4. Ensign Warker stood right outside, the motorized chisel in his hand. Faro snatched it from him and stepped left to block his view of Thrawn in the same movement. 

“Thank you, Ensign,” she said firmly, already closing the door. She pressed the button on the chisel and watched as the little metal bit on the end started to whir. When she turned, Thrawn had his head tipped back against the wall, his eyes hooded as he watched her. 

Silently, Faro held the chisel up, letting the tinny sound it made speak for her. It was possibly her imagination, but she thought she saw Thrawn’s lips lift in a tiny, tired smile.

Time to get to work.


	3. Chapter 3

It wasn’t clear if Thrawn had taken any of the ISD _Chimaera_ personnel with him to see the rescued Chiss girls off or if he’d gone alone. If he _had_ taken anyone, Faro certainly didn’t know about it. There were no officers missing from the bridge and, so far as she knew, no one had been invited to accompany him to the private docking bay; no enlisted men, no stormtroopers, no deathtroopers and no Rukhs, either, for that matter. 

Faro forced herself to stay on the bridge, patiently minding her own business and sending up a quick prayer of thanks that Darth Vader and his private cadre of troopers were finally gone. They’d left the day before, allowing all officers on the bridge to finally breathe easy. 

And with the alien children soon to follow, they’d be breathing even easier. 

Faro liked to think that most of the _Chimaera’s_ crew — especially its officers — were above the type of anti-alien sentiment so common throughout the galaxy. But rescuing a group of, for example, _Rodian_ children was a bit different than rescuing a group of children from some random species in the Unknown Regions ... which also happened to be the same species as your Grand Admiral, the only known Chiss in the entire Empire.

That … that was just weird.

The children were helpless, and it was the _Chimaera’s_ duty to rescue them, no matter what Lord Vader said. Still, Faro couldn’t help but be relieved that they were leaving. She stood on the bridge with her hands clasped behind her back, unconsciously mimicking Thrawn’s most typical posture, and tried not to show how anxious she was. 

Thrawn was, after all, technically supposed to be in exile. How would his people react when they found out he’d escaped from the deserted planet they’d left him on? Of course, Faro didn’t know how exile worked for the Chiss — it was possible, she supposed, that they’d _expected_ him to eventually find his way off that planet and didn’t care, so long as he never came back home.

But it was _more_ possible, she suspected, that he’d been meant to stay on that planet alone until the day he died. If that were the case, should she expect the Chiss to retaliate? To attack? To attempt a kidnapping so they could enact the exile all over again?

She _really_ should have gone down to the docking bay with him. 

She checked her chrono again.

“Commodore?”

It was Hammerly, her face creased with concern. Automatically, Faro assumed the concern was for Thrawn; after a moment, she realized it was actually for her.

“Yes, Commander?” she said.

Hammerly hesitated visibly. “It’s nothing important. It’s just that Prychek was making — er, _attempting_ to make small talk with you, ma’am, and you didn’t seem to hear.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Faro spotted Prychek, now so far away from her that he was out of earshot. Part of her was relieved she lucked out of Prychek’s eternally awkward attempts at conversation. The other, more responsible part of her was dismayed.

“Hammerly,” Faro said, and the word came out like a sigh, “you have the bridge.”

She heard the requisite response — “Aye, sir” — but didn't really process it. She’d already done an about-face, making her way down the command walkway to the exit. From here to Thrawn’s private docking bay was a short walk made even more brisk by her hurried, exasperated pace. She couldn't tell who she was more exasperated with — Thrawn, for going alone and not checking in once since he left, or herself, for being so concerned about what was probably a non-issue that she couldn’t even pay attention on her own bridge. 

Probably Thrawn, she reflected. It was so, so easy to be exasperated with Thrawn. 

She entered the docking bay, eyes automatically going to the little bench where she’d sat with Thrawn just days before, chipping methodically at the suit of stone encrusted over his uniform. He’d been far away then, head down and eyes hooded in thought; he hadn’t spoken a word to her after Ensign Warker brought them the motorized chisel, and Faro still couldn’t decide if that had been a result of his usual reticent nature or if it had been a mere byproduct of exhaustion.

He hadn’t slept since, she knew that much. Things had progressed too quickly for that. And she wasn’t sure, when she thought about it, how recently he’d slept _before_ the incident on Batuu. At least a day, she supposed, accounting for the time it had taken them to travel through the blocked hyperlanes.

Maybe Chiss needed less sleep than humans. She’d love to believe that, really, but the Force-sensitive children they’d rescued had spent almost all their time on the _Chimaera_ sleeping, so that explanation was a little hard to swallow. 

Faro checked her chrono again, keeping one eye on the blast doors. She fingered her comlink, trying to stave off her instinct to key it on and check with Thrawn — though she doubted he’d answer her, even if he was listening. Not if it wasn’t an emergency. 

Luckily, her wait wasn’t long. She’d only just made a note of the time and clasped her hands behind her back again when the blast doors creaked and groaned; a moment after that, they slid open with an ear-aching scraping noise.

Thrawn walked through a moment later. The Chiss shuttle was gone, the children with it. 

And he looked … fine.

Were his shoulders a little slumped? It was possible, but if so, the difference was so subtle Faro couldn’t say. There was an unreadable, half-relaxed set to his face — the sort of relaxation that could have meant he was insufferably tired, or that he was swimming in some sort of opaque emotion, or (and this was perhaps most likely) that he was simply deep in thought.

His eyes were focused vaguely on the floor at first, giving Faro a split-second to study him. Then he raised his head and instantly the relaxed set to his face vanished, taking with it any clue to how he really felt. His spine straightened, his shoulders squaring, his stride lengthening.

He looked the picture of alertness. The perfect soldier — the type of good example leaders everywhere aspired to be.

And then he tripped over his own feet.

Faro jumped forward to catch him, but in the next instant he caught himself first, one hand shooting out against the wall. There was no surprise on Thrawn’s face as he stumbled; his eyes slid closed, lips turning down ever-so-slightly in a frown. Faro managed to halt her own forward momentum before she ran right into him, correcting her helping hand into an intensely awkward pat on the shoulder.

Graciously, Thrawn didn’t comment on the shoulder-pat.

Unfortunately, Faro couldn’t bring herself to do the same for the stumble.

“Sir,” she said carefully, studying his face. She didn’t continue until Thrawn opened his eyes and focused on her face. “How long has it been since you slept?”

A crease appeared between his eyebrows and it took him a moment to process the question. The fact that it took _Grand Admiral Thrawn_ a moment to process any question so simple was really all the answer Faro needed.

“Who is in command of the bridge?” Thrawn asked, which wasn’t the most masterful deflection Faro had seen from him.

“Hammerly,” she said. Not that it mattered. “You didn’t answer the question, sir.”

He flexed his hand, pushing himself away from the wall. “The question is … unrelevant.”

“Irrelevant,” said Faro, feeling her heart sink a little further at the slip.

“Yes,” Thrawn said. His gaze was angled toward the door, but his eyes were far away. Deliberately, Faro shifted into his line of sight and forced him to look at her again.

“Days, sir?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “An entire week?”

Thrawn made a visible attempt to camouflage his weariness. It was almost like watching a Clawdite change its skin; in a matter of seconds, he could pass for a mildly-tired officer at the end of a long shift.

“No point in denying it, sir,” Faro said before he could get a word in. “Before you _insist_ you don't need any sleep, let me say this: there’s nothing going on out here. The Grysks are gone; Darth Vader is gone; the Chiss children are gone. We are, until we return to Lothal, a ship without _any_ pressing business. You’ve got nothing to do now but datawork, and before you say _anything_ about that, I’ve got a Basic vocabulary word for you.”

This time it was Thrawn’s turn to cock an eyebrow.

“ _Delegation_ ,” Faro said. “You’re a Grand Admiral, sir. Someone else can handle the datawork. _You_ need to sleep.”

“Debatable,” said Thrawn mildly.

“ _Not_ debatable,” Faro said. “First of all, sir, _you_ of all people have to see there’s no tactical advantage to continuing without sleep. Second of all, _everyone_ sleeps. It’s a normal function, not something you have to hide. Everyone sleeps; it’s a natural h— it’s natural.”

If Thrawn noticed that she almost said ‘human,’ he didn’t comment on it. It occurred to Faro for the first time that Chiss might actually have some sort of taboo on sleeping, or at least on admitting to the necessity of sleep in public. It seemed absurd at first blush, but then again, humans frequently saw _other_ physical needs as embarrassing and gauche. 

Maybe to Thrawn, saying “I’m tired” was the social equivalent of “I gotta take a leak.”

“I don’t argue whether it is natural to sleep,” Thrawn said, pulling her from her thoughts.

“Then what _is_ your argument?” Faro asked, blinking.

“There is no argument. In truth, only one thing keeps me from my quarters, Commodore.”

“Which is?” Faro said, jutting out her jaw defiantly.

Thrawn gave her a very significant, weary look. His eyes moved slowly from her to the door behind her.

The door she was physically blocking, trapping Thrawn in the docking bay.

“Right,” Faro said, face flaming as she stepped aside. Thrawn inclined his head as he moved past her — and after she took a moment to recuperate from the embarrassment, Faro followed him. Her blush faded as she fell in step with him, chagrined but still determined to see this out. She was almost certain, once her face cooled a little, that Thrawn had 100% been arguing with her ... until he realized it was an argument he couldn't win. Then, so seamlessly she almost didn't notice, he'd changed the game around on her, pretending like this whole sleep thing was his idea.

It was either that, or he was hiding the real reason he couldn't sleep. And since Faro couldn't think of any possible reason why someone might go a full week without rest, she put that option out of mind.

“Out of curiosity, sir,” she said, sneaking a glance at him, “you have slept at least a _little_ this week, right?”

Thrawn didn’t answer. He was maintaining that perfect-soldier sir-yes-sir posture from earlier, though Faro was close enough to him that she could see the deep lines beneath his eyes and the weight on his eyelids. She felt like she hadn’t seen him fully rested since Vanto left.

“You have not slept much this week, either, Commodore,” Thrawn said, turning the issue back around on her.

Typical. Still, being an actual _adult_ , Faro didn’t have a problem answering honestly.

“No, sir,” she said. “Lord Vader made that difficult for me.”

They walked in perfect silence for a while; she could hear the gears turning in Thrawn’s brain as he digested this. He seemed surprised, initially, by Faro's statement — or, more likely, by her willingness to admit that the Sith lord's presence had disturbed her so. They were almost to Thrawn’s private quarters when he spoke again.

“He invaded your mind,” Thrawn said, so blandly Faro couldn’t tell if it was a statement or a question. Whatever it was, it was such a bizarre idea that she almost stumbled.

She’d heard rumors Vader could read minds. Was Thrawn telling her it was actually true? She shot a sharp look at him, analyzing his solemn face, his pursed lips, trying to figure out what he meant. His eyes were impossible to read — too different from human eyes for Faro to really suss them out — but their glow seemed more intense than usual, and the taut lines beneath them were plain as day.

Was he saying Vader had done that to _him_?

It seemed like an eternity before she stopped in front of the door to Thrawn’s quarters and faced him, forcing herself to say, “No, sir. I only meant it was difficult to sleep knowing he was here. Everyone was already on edge due to the mission; knowing any failure might be judged by Lord Vader certainly weighed on us in what moments of rest we could come by. But no, sir, he didn’t invade my mind.” Her eyebrows furrowed; she dipped her chin. “I wasn’t aware he _could_.”

Thrawn’s face was impossible to interpret. They stared at each other for a long moment; Faro got the feeling he was trying to read her the same way she was trying to read him. She'd seen him look at his enemies that way before, scrutinizing their every gesture so he could predict their next move, but she'd never seen him turn that gaze on her.

It was possible either of them could have said something to break the silence. She could have asked him outright whether Vader had done something so inhumane — so invasive — to him this week, and whether that act had cost him sleep. She could ask about Vanto's disappearance, about the Chiss girls, about the messages he received from time to time that he read in private. He could ask her if she were lying when she said Vader hadn't ripped through her defenses or, perhaps without realizing it, if she were being dishonest with herself, covering up thoughts and intuitions she’d had, things she’d deemed unfit for further examination.

But none of that happened. Instead, Thrawn broke the silence by reaching past Faro to key his door open. He stepped inside without another word, and for a moment Faro stayed where she was, standing in the passageway and facing the open entrance to Thrawn’s private quarters, where he would — allegedly — finally get some rest.

She didn’t hesitate long. Before the doors hissed shut again, she straightened her back and followed him inside.

Just to make sure.


End file.
